


Desperate Souls

by rowofstars



Series: 31 Days of Fandomas 2018 [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Tournament (2009)
Genre: Angel Belle, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pre-Relationship, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 07:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16849873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: Ex-priest Joseph is having a bad day, but someone is watching over him.





	Desperate Souls

**Author's Note:**

> This is angsty. And also my first time writing anything Macelle or Macey. Since I love both I thought why not combine them in a weird way. I hope it works. If it doesn't, sorry. The suicide thing is kinda blink and you miss it. I listed both ships because it is both in a way. For the 31 Days of Fandomas prompt #4 - Angel.

The prayer kneeler creaked under Joseph's weight. He bit back a sound as his aching knees settled on the faded velvet, the padding long since crushed down until it felt like he was right on top of the dark cherry wood. His hands folded automatically, elbows resting on the narrow plank as he breathed in and out.

He closed his eyes and tried to find the centering calm of the Holy Spirit, but it had been eluding him for quite some time. His forehead rested against his knuckles for a long moment before he lifted his gaze to the crucifix above the altar. The visage of the Savior stared down at him, and he swallowed hard, feeling nothing but judgement and damnation in the vacate, bronzed eyes. His hands started trembling and he leaned back, absently reaching for the flask of whiskey in his coat, but his fingers found nothing but a few coins and a gum wrapper.

Sighing, Joseph pushed to his feet, clenching his fingers into a fist as his body shook all over. The pounding in his head thumping in time with his pulse and he staggered back, almost tripping down the steps before he sat back on one of the hard pews. A wave of nausea washed over him and he slumped over, curling in on himself as he lay along the bench. He deserved it, all of it. The pain in his knees, the tremors and aches of withdrawal, and most of all the harsh judgement of the Lord. He’d even lost his job, his calling, because of his sins. 

Father Fitzgerald was not usually an angry man, but he’d been rightfully upset when Joseph showed up to the Thursday evening mass stinking of ale and whiskey, in same clothes he’d worn yesterday. His collar had been missing too, lost somewhere between the pub and the steps of the church. It was humiliating being dressed down in front of Sisters Margaret and Esther, but it had also been justified.

Two had passed since that day and instead of feeling some kind of relief from the pressures of being a priest, of a performative faith he didn’t feel in his heart anymore, he just felt - empty. Two weeks until Christmas and he couldn’t drum up enough fucks for any of it. He’d tried to replace the hollowness with drink for a few days, which worked at first, but then ended with him being arrested for a series of minor infractions that were simply more nails in the coffin of his soul.

Joseph squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the unshed tears out to the corners where they trickled down his face and onto the old, varnished wood. There was a bridge he crossed everyday to get to the church. He stopped today and watched the river rush by beneath him. The waters looked dark and cold, almost calming, welcoming in a strange way. In the space between heartbeats he almost did it. His hands had gripped the railing, his feet started to step up on the ledge - 

Then a car zoomed passed, honking its horn, and he fell backward to the pavement, dazed and terrified. The church was the only place he could think to go after that.

He opened his eyes and looked at the altar, at the cloth that covered it, at the gilded candlesticks, and the grail replica cup always full of wine. He could drink it. He could go in the back where the case of wine bottles was kept and empty each bloody one down his throat. It called to him, like a siren or a lost love or perhaps the Devil himself. There was a pull in his belly, and he sat up, eyes never leaving the cup. It would be red and sweet, warm with just a slight bitterness at the end. His tongue darted out to lick at his chapped lips, almost able to taste the numbing oblivion that await him.

He made to stand, but - something held him in place. Frowning, he pushed against the pew, yet his body refused move. It felt like something was pushing back down on him, keeping him there, a constant pressure on his shoulders. A haze fell over his eyes and he looked up, catching the light from the stained glass at the peak of the ceiling. It shined out and around the crucifix and the altar, and he felt awed by it as all the pain and emptiness he’d been feeling for so long was filled with something he couldn’t name.

Joseph exhaled and then gasped for breath, burning his lungs as he filled them, unaware that he’d been holding it for what seemed to be too long. He coughed and blinked, and the pulse in his head returned along with the unsettling swirl in his gut. Pushing to his feet, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees next to the small rubbish bin they kept near the podium. His stomach emptied itself into the small plastic lined basket, his throat flexing as he gagged. It was agony, but when it was over he felt markedly better, and chalked up the strange feeling he’d had just a minute ago to sickness.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Behind and above the wretched scene, outside of time and the world itself, was Belle. Her name meant beauty, and her current shape could certainly pass for that in a conventional way, but she knew most people would probably scream if they saw her true form. Seraphim where holy and yet terrifying, a strange dichotomy from the Lord.

She looked down at her hand and curled it into a fist, still able to feel the pressure and weight of Joseph’s body, and the texture of his leather jacket as she’d placed her palm on his shoulder. The Spirit had moved through her in that moment, her grace calling down a light from above and filling the broken ex-priest’s heart with a solace he had never found in all his years in the cloth.

It was wrong. 

She hadn’t been told she could touch them, but she had been watching over him for some time. His soul had called out to her, seeking the meagerest of comforts, and she could not resist any longer. Her purpose was to bring peace and the word of the Holy Spirit, the Mother and Maker, to mankind, but not to interfere, not directly, unless ordered to. And yet this poor, desperate soul, inside this broken man needed her. She loved him for all of it, his sins and his faults, as clear as her calling and the love of her God. She only wished he could know.

Her wings flexed behind her, stretching out to either side as if to shield Joseph MacAvoy from the world while his stomach upended itself. Her eyes lifted up to the altar and the cross, silently asking the One for guidance and strength to understand what needed to be done.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

A chill swept over Joseph and he straightened, pushing back from the rubbish bin filled with his vomit. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of the stench, and he knew he’d have to clean it up before he left. Hopefully before anyone saw him.

He shivered and looked around for the source of the cold air and saw one of the doors at the back of the church open. The wind blew in some snow from the front steps that had yet to be cleared. Frowning, he stood, and moved towards it, pulling his jacket tighter around him and wishing he had something warmer.

“Father?”

He startled and staggered, catching himself on the edge of a pew.

“Hello?” came the voice again, and he turned to see a woman standing in the doorway.

He walked closer and saw her whole body tremble as she shivered. Something clicked in his mind, and he hurried into action, closing the door firmly, and leading her away from it, hovering his hand at her back. She was shorter than he was, and petite, with a mess of brunette curls pulled back in a hair clip. Her coat was a shiny red leather jacket that looked even less warm than his, and she wore a skirt and shoes that had no place in December in Scotland.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, her teeth clacking together as they chattered between words. 

Her accent was different, not from anywhere in the United Kingdom, but oddly pleasing to his ears. She met his eyes and he nearly gasped. A deep purple bruise covered her eyebrow over to her temple, and her bottom lip was swollen with an angry red crack in the middle, as if it had been split open and healed and split again. There was a streak on her jawline, a rusty red that he assumed was blood. Her clothes were even more disheveled than his, and the way she held herself, shoulders hunched, arms folded over her middle, was something he’d seen more than a few times.

“Father?” she said again, and then pressed her lips together.

He frowned. “Joseph.”

That seem to settled her a bit, and she moved further into the church, away from the drafty doors. There was something about her that felt familiar, something that gave him the impression of a kindred spirit.

“My name is Joseph,” he said, his voice steadier than it had been in days. “Can I help you, Miss - ?”

“Lacey,” she said, trying to square her shoulders. Her left arm moved awkwardly, as if it hurt to do so. “Father Joseph, I need - I need your help.”

Warmth fell on Joseph’s face, like the bright summer sun. He glanced at the altar again and then up to the hanging crucifix. The light that had shone through the stained glass was gone, replaced with the same dreariness that had plagued the city for days since the snow started falling, but this time he didn’t feel it. In his mind, was the image of that light, and the steady pressure on his body as he looked at it, holding him in the moment and comforting him at the same time.

Then he looked back at Lacey, and smiled. “Of course.”

As they moved down the aisle to sit in the pew at the front, a draft blew in from between the doors, bringing with it another dusting of snow, and a single white feather.


End file.
